CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emily had nearly finished packing. She was annoyed at herself for being so bothered by what her father did.
After all, she was nearly an adult, and he was no longer married to her mother.
But she did care. She cared a lot. It was one thing for him to be seeing someone new and letting that get in the way of spending time with her.
It was another thing altogether to discover that person wasn’t new at all.
That person was the woman who had basically put the nail in the coffin of her parents’ marriage.
She knew she didn’t have the right to tell him how to live his life, but she didn’t have to stick around to watch it either.
It was as if she was just another of his clients, to be locked up safe somewhere while he did whatever.
Well, she wasn’t that. And she had a perfectly good home of her own.
The shine had worn off the fancy apartment pretty quickly.
Probably somewhere around the second time that he had left her alone there because of work.
Only work had turned out to be Deborah Chowdhury. Again.
‘Ouch, damn it!’ she cursed as she bent a nail back while stuffing things into her bag.
She sucked the finger, tears of hurt and frustration, not entirely focused on the nail, pricking her eyes.
She took a breath. ‘Sod him,’ she muttered.
‘Sod all men.’ She slammed shut the case and hauled it off the bed, dragging it through to the living area.
The wheels sounded super loud over the polished wood floor.
She strode for the door in a hurry, so that she actually gasped when the electronic lock on it beeped and the latch clanked before the door swung open.
Expecting to see her father and ready to explain to him why she was leaving, she steeled herself.
Charlie stood in the doorway.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked, though not without a smile.
Emily was thrown by the sight of the good looking youth but wasn’t about to show it.
‘You weren’t supposed to be here,’ she said levelly.
‘This is my flat, remember? Again, same question?’
‘It wasn’t my idea. My dad…’
‘You’re a lot like him, aren’t you?’
‘Is that a question too? Really? Are you like he described you, I wonder?’
‘Spoilt, lazy, and with attitude?’ Charlie sauntered into the room with the walk of a person in the right enjoying another’s discomfort.
‘That, yeah.’ She watched him look her up and down. ‘Looks like he might have been right.’
‘Wow, you inherited his people skills as well as his eyebrows.’
Emily had to stop her hand going to her brows as a reflex. ‘So, are you moving back in, or what?’
‘So, are you moving out?’ he asked, nodding at her case. When she hesitated he went on. ‘I mean, don’t mind me. Feel free to come and go as you please,’ he told her, taking a moment to glance round the living room.
She had the uncomfortable feeling he was checking for signs of damage, or possibly missing valuables.
Reluctant as she was to agree with her father about anything, she felt he could well have described Charlie Wilson pretty accurately.
Too much money. Too much freedom. Too much in the way of good looks.
All resulting in thinking too much of himself and no doubt very little of everyone else.
‘I thought your mother had called you home and forbidden you to stay here,’ she said, loving the tiny flinch at the mention of his mother’s control.
Instead of replying he went to the kitchen area and pulled open the enormous American refrigerator.
Emily squirmed a little at the uncool contents.
Not a bottle of champagne in sight. He closed the door again and turned to look at her.
She knew she should continue on her way.
Just take the lift down to the foyer, summon an Uber and go home.
Show her father how she felt about being left alone again.
Show this arrogant young man she wasn’t interested.
And yet, he was very good looking. And there was something annoyingly appealing about the way he was leaning against the island and openly gawping at her right then.
He wasn’t like the boys at her school. There was arrogance, yes, but subtly different.
More like confidence. With something to back it up.
All the things that her father disliked about him seemed, at that moment, to make him all the more attractive to her.
And of course, there was added spice in the thought that her father wouldn’t want her to have anything to do with him.
She smiled then, enjoying the way his own expression softened when she did so. ‘Do you swim?’ she asked.
Tretower, Wales 1450
‘Have a care,’ Rhiannon told the men as they lifted one half of the pair of great doors into position.
‘Yes, a little to the left and I think you have it.’ She stepped back to give them room to work.
The double doors were the final piece of construction she would oversea.
When the hinges and bolts were fitted, the manor house would, at last, be complete.
It had been a long time in the building, a fact that she had not, at first, minded.
The slow progress of the work had allowed her time to adjust to the idea of at last leaving the house that had been her home for so many years.
She had seen so many changes there, during her lifetime.
Seen people she loved grow up, have children, grow old and pass over to the next world.
Seen their children and grandchildren grow to fine adults and have families of their own.
See the garden she and her mother had planted blossom and mature over years that turned to decades, that turned to centuries.
She had seen the Norman king take his seat of power only to die not very many years later.
She had seen the Plantagenets rise to prominence and claim the crown.
And now, from that success, two great families battled for the right to rule.
Red rose and white. The houses of Lancaster and York.
It often seemed to Rhiannon that as quickly as one war was over, another started, and these times were no different.
But the scale was greater. The theatre of war larger.
She had come to realise that if she were to keep her people, her coven, safe, and serve successfully as a witch of the White Shadow, she needed a new stronghold.
A new house that would consolidate her position as Lady of the Black Mountains.
A position that was increasingly coming under new challenges and assaults.
Of course the stone keep at the far end of the meadow had been built two centuries before the first stone of the manor house was laid.
Her original intention had been to live there herself, but she had no heart for it.
The pull of her family home was still strong.
Instead she had installed a succession of grateful nobles there, a prized reward for good service from one loyal family after another.
Until the structure had become unfashionable, the mode of living outdated.
And so, beside the old stone keep that was all that remained of the original fortification, she had commissioned the building of the beautiful manor house.
It was ‘L’ shaped, with added buildings and walls to give it an inner courtyard, with gardens on three sides.
The fourth side consisted of a high wall with castellations at the top; ramparts from which the far reach of the valley could be seen in all directions.
The great doors - ten feet high and almost as wide - were set into the centre of the wall.
When opened, they gave access to the inner courtyard, across which could be found the front door to the main part of the house.
When closed, they presented a sturdy fortification which would not be easily breached.
More than this, they gave a clear indication to all who looked at them, that this was a house of someone of importance.
Someone of history. Someone of noble birth and high standing in society.
Someone of power and influence. They did this not only by their grandeur and strength, but by the elaborate and intricate carvings upon them.
To Rhiannon’s instructions and with great care and craftsmanship, scenes of the mountains, the valley, the river and its people had been worked into the fabric of the doors.
She put her hand on the warm wood now and let her fingers trace the route of the little Rhiangoll river, thinking wistfully how happily she had played in it as a child over four hundred years before.
‘The doors are to your liking, my Lady?’ The carpenter stood, hat in hand, nervously waiting for her approval.
Rhiannon smiled, watching him relax beneath that smile. ‘They are, Arwel. You have surpassed my expectations. I am so grateful to you.’
‘It was an honour to play a small part in the creation of such a splendid house, my Lady,’ he said, lowering his gaze a little to hide the emotion written on his face.
‘Everyone has worked so hard. I could not be more delighted. Are you looking forward to the celebrations tomorrow? Will your lovely wife sing for us?’
‘Happily! The whole valley has spoken of little else for weeks past.’
‘You have all earned a day of enjoyment. Cook has been preparing the feast.’ She leaned closer to Arwel and whispered. ‘And I have bought a barrel of Melvyn Watkins’ finest ale. I’m told this year’s is particularly strong.’